Men Don't Dance
by smileybubbles08
Summary: They work. They drink. They have bad backs. They do not dance.  Karofsky-centric.  Dave/Santana friendship.  Brittana romance.


**A/N: A warning to anyone who's reading this because they have me on their alerts: It's not like anything you've gotten from me before. It's my first M-rated story. It's not smut, and it just barely warrants an M rating, but still...**

**The main romantic pairing in this story is Brittana, but it's mostly gonna be about Karofsky and his friendship with Santana. Anyway, I sort of have a plan for where this is going, but there are a lot of things I may change as I write. So there's a chance that I could be heavily influenced by your feedback. That is, if anyone reads this, because honestly, how many people search for M-rated stories about Karofsky and Santana? I know I don't. **

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><p><strong>Men Don't Dance<strong>

**Chapter 1: Out Tonight**

Dave Karofsky had imagined losing his virginity many times. He told the guys on the football team that it had already happened, with an older girl he met while vacationing in Europe, but by the end of his junior year, he had yet to swipe his V-card. He came close once, in tenth grade with Brittany Pierce. However, he chickened out at the last minute and told her with feigned disappointment that he forgot the condom. It would happen though. He was bound and determined that he would lose his virginity before his senior year.

He just didn't think it would be with a thirty-year-old man in the dirty bathroom stall of a gay dance club in Dayton.

He wouldn't have been there if it weren't for Santana, his girlfriend of nearly three months, and the girl he was allegedly screwing. They weren't really, of course, as neither of them was straight. This entire charade had been Santana's idea, and it had been her idea to make the ninety-minute drive to Dayton, to visit _Privilege_, a gay club she'd heard about through a lesbian chat-room. Dave had agreed to it because he found it easier to just agree to anything Santana suggested than to put up a fight. She wore the pants in their pseudo-relationship. He was about as whipped as a guy could be, Dave thought, without actually being attracted to the girl.

It was a Friday night in mid-July. Friday nights were their designated "date-nights", evenings they would spend hanging out together, usually in public so they could be seen by lots of people in order to keep up their façade. They usually kissed at least once on their "dates", which wasn't as repulsive as Dave used to imagine it would be, although he always felt uncomfortable doing it. Afterwards, they would sneak off to one of their houses for some "private time". They let people believe whatever they wanted about how they spent said private time, but in reality, they just ate Twizzlers and talked.

He was happy with their arrangement. He didn't feel guilty using Santana, because he knew she was just using him right back. And he never felt any pressure dating a lesbian. Not like he would have if he were dating a straight girl.

This particular Friday night was the first time Santana suggested doing something that would not be witnessed by their peers. She'd taken Dave by surprise when she showed up at his doorstep in a slinky red dress that showed off all the parts of her he was supposed to be interested in but wasn't, insisting that he take off his damned McKinley High practice jersey and put on something that made him look less like a high-schooler.

"We're going clubbing," she declared, holding up a pair of fake IDs. "Be sure to put on something extra gay."

Two hours later, he was parking his car in a garage a block away from _Privilege_, dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a ridiculously shiny shirt, buttoned up halfway. Santana insisted that he only button it halfway, to reveal some of his chest hair. He wasn't so sure about it, because his chest was hairier than any of the other guys on the football team, and he wasn't sure it was normal. He'd gotten a lot of flak for it in the locker room. But Santana assured him that there would be guys there who were into his type. He tried not to be offended, because he was pretty sure the "type" she was referring to was heavy and hairy.

They strolled into the club arm-in-arm, and Dave immediately felt out-of-place. His fake ID may have said that he was twenty-three-year-old David Meadows of Cincinnati, but he still felt like the deeply closeted seventeen-year-old Dave Karofsky of McKinley High, Lima.

"Here we are," he mumbled, staring numbly at what seemed like hundreds of older, more experienced men.

"Finally," Santana said with a grin, shaking her hair seductively. "Let's dance."

Dave cocked an eyebrow. "I don't dance. You know I don't dance."

"Shut up, Karofsky. You love to dance."

"I do not."

"Well _I _love to dance, so I'm gonna go gets my groove on and see how many ladies I can get to dance up on me."

"Wait!" Dave cried, as she released her hold on his arm. "You're just gonna leave me here?"

She rolled her eyes. "No offense, Karofsky, but I didn't come here to be your fag hag. It's a club. I came here to dance. Go find some chubby chaser to buy you a drink."

"I'm not _chubby_. I'm muscular."

"And I'm leaving. _Ciao_."

Dave stewed as Santana danced her way to the center of the dance floor. Not wanting to stand alone in the doorway, he made a beeline for the nearest barstool. He tugged uncomfortably at his shiny shirt and tried to position himself fashionably at the bar. He leaned back against the bar, staring out onto the dance floor, trying to look nonchalant. He tried crossing his legs, decided that looked too gay and uncrossed them, then remembered that he was in a gay bar and re-crossed them. He tugged at his shirt again.

He'd been adjusting his shirt for a good five minutes when he found a drink being shoved toward him. He sent the bartender a confused look.

"I didn't order this."

"It's from him," the bartender explained, nodding toward the end of the bar. The man sitting there gave him a small wave. Dave waved back nervously, and sucked in a harsh breath when he saw the man getting up from his seat to walk toward him.

He looked back to the bartender desperately. "What do I do?"

The bartender smiled. "First time out?"

"How could you tell?"

He scooted the drink closer to Dave. "This might help." And with that, he left to tend to other drunken customers.

Dave picked up his drink and tried to guzzle it down, but it tasted horrible. Whatever it was, it reminded him of the acetone Santana used to clean her fingernails. This stuff tasted the way that stuff smelled, and it burned like hell going down. He'd just managed to gulp down the last of it before he felt a tap on the shoulder. He spun around maybe a little too quickly in his barstool and looked up at the man standing before him.

"I'm Gavin," the man introduced himself.

Dave's first thought was that if he had a name like Gavin, he would probably not start a conversation by introducing himself. His second thought was that up close, Gavin was pretty good-looking. A little old for him and a bit rough around the edges, but that was kind of a turn-on. His third thought was that it would probably be polite to respond somehow.

"Dave," he replied with astonishing composure.

"You here with anyone, Dave?" Gavin asked, standing a little close for Dave's comfort.

"Only if you count my closeted lesbian girlfriend who's hopelessly in love with her best friend."

"Beards?" Gavin asked with a smirk. "God, I haven't done that since high school. How old are you, Dave?"

"Twenty-three."

He'd thought Santana might be pushing it, trying to pass him off as a twenty-three year old. After all, he was only seventeen. But she'd assured him that he really did look old for his age, and should consider it a blessing. She herself could barely pass for twenty-one.

"Twenty-three," Gavin repeated, wistfully. "When I was twenty-three, I wouldn't even talk to a guy my age."

"You don't look that old."

"I'm thirty."

Thirty. Thirteen years older than Dave.

"Thirty's not old."

When Dave was starting to talk in full sentences, Gavin was learning algebra.

"It's kinda loud in here," Gavin commented, glancing across the dance floor nonchalantly. "And crowded. Don't you think?"

"It's a club."

"You want to take this conversation somewhere a little quieter? And more private?"

Dave flushed. It was obvious what he was propositioning. This guy was about as smooth as Finn Hudson's dance moves. "I don't think I'm drunk enough for that," he replied.

Gavin nodded. "Excuse me!" he called, flagging down the bartender. "Two more please!"

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><p>Three drinks later, Dave found himself pressed against the bathroom wall, his shirt unbuttoned and slipping off his shoulders and Gavin's hands sliding down the back of his pants as he lapped away at Dave's neck. He was smashed and turned-on and terrified that the older man would know that he'd never done anything like this before.<p>

The next thing he knew, Gavin was kissing his way down his chest and stomach and fumbling with the button on his pants. Then the pants were around his ankles and his underwear followed close behind and, oh God, Gavin was doing amazing things with his tongue. Then he was being turned around, and he felt his stomach twist up in knots, and he wanted to tell Gavin he wasn't ready for _that_, but he didn't want to sound inexperienced. Then he felt two fingers pressing into him at once, and it burned the way that alcohol was still burning in his chest.

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><p>"You want to get out of here?"<p>

"I can't."

The woman—Nina or Lena, Santana couldn't remember which—was beautiful. She was tall and blonde and a pretty terrific dancer. It felt good to dance with her. To be watched by her. To be seen with her. But she was not Brittany, and Santana did not intend to go home with her.

"What's wrong?" Nina-or-Lena asked, her breath hot against Santana's ear. "You have a girlfriend?"

"Not really. It's just that I came here with a friend and he's…"

Crap. She'd forgotten about Karofsky. She'd promised him they wouldn't stay for too long. She wasn't sure how long they'd been there, but it must have been at least a couple of hours. He was probably miserable, sitting by himself at the bar.

"I have to go," she said suddenly.

"So soon?" Nina-or-Lena asked, disappointed. "Can I at least get a number?"

She handed Santana her phone, and Santana typed in Puckerman's number before slipping it back into Nina-or-Lena's pocket.

When she got to the bar, Karofsky was nowhere to be found. She scanned all around for him before turning to the bartender. "Have you seen a big, hairy guy?" she asked.

"I've seen a lot of big, hairy guys," the bartender replied.

"The one I'm looking for probably looks frightened and out of place."

The bartender nodded. "That guy. Last I saw, he was leaving."

"Leaving?" Santana repeated, frowning. "With someone?"

The bartender shook his head. "He was with someone earlier, but when he walked out the door, he was by himself."

Santana sighed. "Okay. Thanks."

She found Karofsky just outside the door, sitting against the brick wall looking disconnected. His shirt was buttoned off-kilter.

"There you are," she sighed, pulling him to his feet. He stumbled forward, and she had to catch him before he fell right back to the ground. "Are you drunk?"

"Just a little."

Santana rolled her eyes, holding out her palm. "Keys, Karofsky. I'm driving."

Karofsky didn't argue, just fished his keys out of his pocket and placed them in her hand. Luckily, Santana hadn't been drinking. It would have been hard to explain to one of her glee club friends why she and Karofsky needed to be picked up from a gay club in Dayton. None of them would have made the drive at that time of night anyways, and then she'd have to explain to her father why she'd bought a motel room in Dayton with his credit card. Again.

Karofsky was silent during the car ride home. Santana tried asking him what was wrong, but he just turned away and pressed his forehead against the passenger side window. She finally gave up and left him alone.

Sometime before they arrived at his house, Karofsky fell asleep. He woke up when Santana opened the passenger side door and let him topple to the ground. He groaned and pried open his eyes, disoriented, and Santana had to help him to his room.

"Never drink again, Karofsky," she muttered, sitting him down on his bed. "You turn into a big baby. And how the hell did your shirt get like this?" He looked like a mess. His hair was all matted and stuck to his forehead and his shirt was crooked. She started undoing the buttons on his shirt, and he swatted her hands away irritably. "Relax, David," she said, tugging the shirt off his shoulders. "I'm not gonna try to molest you. Lesbian, remember?"

"I don't want you to…" Karofsky mumbled, trying to tug his shirt back on. But it was too late. The shirt was off and Santana could see the damage that had been done.

"Holy crap," she breathed, tossing the shiny shirt aside. "I hate to state the obvious here, but you're covered in hickeys."

Karofsky avoided eye contact with her as he snatched up a t-shirt from his bed and yanked it over his head. "What's it to you?"

"Did you hook up with someone at the bar?"

"So what if I did?"

"Did you have _sex_?" He didn't respond, and Santana's frown deepened. "Dave!"

"What's the big deal?" he muttered, flopping down on his bed and rolling away from her. "That's why we went, right? To meet gay people."

"To _meet_ people, Dave. Not hook up with total strangers. Even I know better than that. "

"Well the night didn't exactly go as I'd imagined it either, Santana. And the reason I didn't tell you is because I knew you'd judge me."

"I'm not…" Santana sighed and perched herself on the edge of Karofsky's bed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm not judging you," she said in a softer voice. "I'm just worried about you. I mean, you could have gotten hurt. Did he…did he hurt you?"

"No," Karofsky mumbled. "I mean, it hurt. But, like, not more than I think it's supposed to."

"…Were you safe?"

"I don't know."

"_Dave_!"

"Well how am I supposed to know? It was my first time. It's not like I can tell the difference."

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"I was embarrassed!" Karofsky cried, rolling onto his back to face her. "And I was terrified, and I was drunk, and I wasn't…" Santana ran her fingernails through his hair, letting him take his time. "I wasn't ready," he whispered finally. "But I didn't want him to know. I was supposed to be twenty-three-year-old David Meadows, not seventeen-year-old Dave Karofsky who's only kissed one guy in his whole life."

"I'm sorry, Dave."

"Yeah, me too."

"How do you feel now?" she asked, laying down beside him on his bed and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Sore," he replied. "And a little groggy."

"I meant…you know…emotionally."

"This from the girl who insists sex and feelings don't mix?"

"Well, I'm an old pro. You're a rookie. You must be feeling something."

Karofsky sighed. "Numb, mostly. And ashamed."

"Ashamed why?"

"Because I was plastered. Because it was with a total stranger who thought I was twenty-three. Because we did up against a dirty bathroom wall in the back of a bar. And because I…"

Santana squeezed his arm gently. "Go on."

"Because I actually liked it. And now I can't tell myself that I'm just confused. I'm gay."

"And you're ashamed of that?"

"Hell yes, I'm ashamed of that."

Santana sighed. "David Karofsky, you and I are more alike than you know."

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><p><strong>AN: Um, I hope you enjoyed this. When I started this, I intended to write a fluffy Klaine piece, and somehow it turned into this. But I'm shipping the Dave/Santana friendship hard right now. Anyways, next chapter will be longer and have more characters. I just wanted the first chapter to focus on Karofsky and Santana.**

**Also, a cookie for anyone who knows where I got the title and the story description.**

**Love to you all!**


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